


Dangerous Games

by The_Bentley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Branding, Comfort, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), French Revolution, Healing, Hurt, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Injury, Injury Recovery, Loneliness, M/M, Major Character Injury, Non-Graphic Violence, Sleep, Torture, Waiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23345077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Bentley/pseuds/The_Bentley
Summary: Crowley fought against his bonds as Hastur brought the brand near.  “No . . . no . . . I’m sorry.  I won’t do it again.  No more consorting with that angel.  Promise!  Please, I beg you!  You know I don’t beg, guys . . .”He trembled, closing his eyes, feeling a heat that didn’t come from it being placed in fire.  Sweat rolled down his temples and primal terror filled him.  Hastur noticed, laughing softly.  Behind the Duke, Dagon smirked at Crowley’s panic.“You’ve caught on, haven’t you?” asked Hastur cruelly.Hell finds out about the rescue at the Bastille and now Crowley faces punishment serious enough it could end up destroying him without celestial intervention in the form of one angel.CW:  There's violence, but it does not reach the level of graphic.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 178
Collections: My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes





	Dangerous Games

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> Fiiiiine. I'm a sucker for a fanfic contest. Based on this [awesome picture](https://the-bentley.tumblr.com/post/612892708549410816) by Whiteley Foster.

_London during the Reign of Terror, 1793_

If you were lucky when they punished you, they sent Hastur or Ligur. If you had a silver tongue, you could sweet talk yourself into a lesser punishment. Hastur was easily confused and Ligur was downright stupid. Not this time.

They sent Dagon.

He was screwed.

Crowley unlocked his door, having travelled back to London from rescuing and lunching with one angel in Paris while all of France fell apart around them. Stepping in, he looked for a candle to light the dark even though he could see in it perfectly well. Keeping up appearances and all.

Instead he saw stars as he was attacked, thrown roughly against the wall. Crowley gasped as his breath escaped from his lungs while his hands came up in defense, claws and fangs already growing in sharp. A harsh slap cut open a gash on his right cheek, the sting of it causing him to hiss in pain.

“Keep it up, Crowley, if you want to make things worse for yourself. I’ve read your reports from the Spanish Inquisition. A little something from the techniques in Barcelona, a bit from the ones used in Madrid . . . then I’ll repeat until you’re nothing more than a soggy mess,” Dagon snapped, getting an iron grip around his neck.

Crowley struggled for oxygen, unable to respond.

“Quit it. It’s not like we need to breathe. You’ve been up here too long.” Dagon sneered. “You’re going soft, Crowley. We need to do something about that.”

His entrance rippled away, changing into a badly-lit room carved out of stone containing a chair, a table with a brazier setting on it, an iron being heated in that brazier and Hastur, with a satisfied smile on his boil-ridden face. Dagon threw Crowley on the floor causing him to land with a grunt.

“I can handle this,” said Hastur.

“Not this time,” replied Dagon. “You let him talk you out of things and the Dark Council wants a message to be sent.”

She walked over, deliberately stepping on the sunglasses that had fallen off Crowley’s face. He winced as he heard glass shatter and metal snap. They were his emotional armour as much as they were a way to physically hide his unusual eyes. Now those two could see every single feeling that he experienced; it all would be reflected in those golden yellow eyes. 

Dagon’s face was before his, grinning with a mouth full of sharp teeth, the knife she produced suddenly in his face. Crowley backed off, scooting across the floor he was lying on, the dirt grinding into his fashionable black breeches.

“Guys, I can explain . . .” he said as he tried to pick himself up and assume a more dignified stance.

Dagon kicked him down, centering the substantial heel of her shoe right on Crowley’s ribs. He rolled to his side, grunting in pain as he felt bones crack. He would not cry out. He would not give them that satisfaction. All the same, he could hear Hastur’s laughter in the background, almost drowned out by the sudden roaring that had popped up in his ears. He could feel Dagon close, hovering just above him. He had to be careful about this.

Her attention was drawn to the black satin ribbon holding his hair back in the style of the day. She ran a finger over it. Crowley tried not to flinch. 

“Nice bow. I rather like it.” She turned to Hastur. “Hey, how do you think this would look in my hair?”

“I think you’d look good in it,” replied the Duke, who was casually leaning against a wall. Too casually.

“All righty, then,” she said. “C’mere and hold him.”

“What are you doing?”

Crowley attempted to scramble to his feet and out of danger, but it was too late. Hastur had his head in a vice grip, telling him not to struggle if he didn’t want Dagon to accidentally cut into his scalp. Red locks fell away as Dagon sliced them off, ribbon and all. Triumphant, she held up the ribbon, Crowley’s hair still contained in its circle. His lips involuntarily curled into a sneer, his shorn locks now framing his face unevenly as his broken ribs ached every time he had to draw a breath to speak.

His beautiful hair was now mostly dangling from the fingertips of one of his bosses. Crowley felt his emotions rise as he tried his hardest to keep the anger at bay. “That was rude. You could have just asked. Now why am I here?”

He tried to appear indifferent about this whole situation, as if the brazier in the corner wasn’t at all worrisome. It wasn’t just the heat coming off the iron in the fire that concerned him; there were elements about it that outright made him uneasy. If only he could put his finger on what . . .

“Now where’s the fun in asking?” said Hastur with a smile towards Dagon. “Shall I tell him why he’s here?”

“Be my guest.”

“Yes, Hastur. Let me know why you’re putting me in my place.”

“Keep joking, Crowley. I’m about to wipe that smile off your face.” Hastur leaned close, shoving him over into the chair that was now conveniently behind him.

With a wave of his hand, Crowley found his hands tied to the back of the chair, suddenly the fear he felt creeping up on him was evident in his unshielded eyes. Hastur noticed and gave him a nasty grin. Crowley swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping noticeably with the movement.

“Yes, Crowley. It’s time to be afraid,” Dagon whispered near his ear. “Your turn, Hastur.”

“The Department of Infernal Miracles randomly pulled your name for an audit. It appears you’ve been using your powers for good. The latest one that has us puzzled is freeing a prisoner from the Bastille,” said Hastur. “Didn’t you cause the Reign of Terror?”

“Well . . . yes . . .” Crowley stammered. “But they don’t always jail the right people. They’re so busy removing heads it doesn’t matter whose head they remove. I mean . . . there are some people who need to stay alive to cause more trouble, right? They aren’t any use to us Down Here.”

“Heaven’s field agent is more useful to us discorporated. Care to explain why you didn’t just walk on by, Crowley?” Hastur was near his face now, his own evil-looking knife right up next to his unblemished cheek. 

Crowley leaned as far away as possible, his hair falling across his eyes. “Well. . .” He shook it out of his face, using the pause to think quickly. “So, I did him a favour. Don’t you get it?”

Hastur’s face was blank. He looked over at Dagon who shrugged.

Crowley made a show of rolling his eyes as if they were missing something so simple. “I do favours for him, like save his arse. Then, he’s indebted to me and owes me back. That little knob head plays by the rules. Believes in repaying his debts, even to me. Do you know how much information I’ve gotten out of him because he owed me?”

“No,” said Hastur.

Dagon rolled her eyes as well.

“I told you guys about Raphael starting to heal that plague you sent.”

“After he already had cured half the population,” said Dagon.

“What about giving you an alternate waterhole to poison after Heaven learned of your plans, Hastur?”

“Yeah, but the tribe was already preparing to move when I poisoned it and that was like two thousand years ago.”

“The Spanish Inquisition!” said Crowley desperately. “The Church started that, but I used the information I got from that angel to twist it into something dreadful!”

“He’s got a point; that was a good one, wasn’t it? Hundreds of years of fear,” Hastur said to Dagon.

Crowley sighed in relief. 

Too soon. 

Dagon pierced him with an icy gaze. “Good information or not, the punishment goes forward. Doing a naïve angel a few favours in hopes of getting information back is one thing. Saving his pitiful arse from execution is another. Do you know how much dissent Crowley could have sown while that Principality waited for a new body?” She switched her glare to her colleague. “What did we just talk about, Hastur? You know why I’m here now. Because he will try to slither out of punishment yet again.”

“Oh, I’ve been punished. You cut off my hair and I’m very sure you broke a few ribs, Underlord Dagon. You know how much that hurts?” Crowley asked. “I’m in pain every time I breathe. Ow. I’ve so learned my lesson. Ow. No more plying the angel for information. Nope. I won’t do it anymore. Ow. Pinky swear. Can I go home now?”

“No,” snapped Dagon. “And shut up before I gag you.”

Striding forward, she grabbed a hold of his coat and shirt pulling one shoulder down, several brass buttons going flying as a result and her claws leaving deep gashes in Crowley’s shoulder. He cried out in pain briefly before biting his tongue. She hit him with the hilt of her knife just below his collarbone causing him to whimper as the air was knocked out of him. The skin quickly began to bruise.

“I said shut up. Did you not hear me?”

Crowley looked down, not daring to say a word. 

“Hastur, prepare it.”

The other demon went over to the brazier, pulling the iron out. Crowley sucked in a breath seeing the leviathan cross glowing red hot on the end of it. Unconsciously, he shrank back in his chair, dread filling his serpentine eyes, his breathing becoming shallow. 

“You’ve been playing dangerous games, Crowley. Time to pay the price,” said Hastur quietly. 

Crowley fought against his bonds as Hastur brought the brand near. “No . . . no . . . I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. No more consorting with that angel. Promise! Please, I beg you! You know I don’t beg, guys . . .”

He trembled, closing his eyes, feeling a heat that didn’t come from it being placed in fire. Sweat rolled down his temples and primal terror filled him. Hastur noticed, laughing softly. Behind the Duke, Dagon smirked at Crowley’s panic.

“You’ve caught on, haven’t you?” asked Hastur cruelly.

“It’s slightly consecrated,” added Dagon smugly. “We got a hold of one of the blessed items used during the Spanish Inquisition. Melted it down and made a few torture items of our own to punish the riff raff with. This brand has a couple of drops of that melted consecrated metal in it. Not enough to cause you extremely serious harm, but enough to make sure that brand’s permanent. You won’t be able to heal it away. It’ll have to happen the human way and the scar left behind is going to be one big reminder of why you don’t cross us.”

“Please! Don’t do this . . . I’ll do everything you tell me to! Even get my reports in on time! Be the perfect little field agent, ok? Duke Hastur? Underlord Dagon?” Crowley was squirming now, trying his best to put distance between himself and that brand. 

“Congratulations, Crowley. You’re the first to try out this branding iron. Enjoy!”

He screamed as the cross was pressed into his skin, causing him a few moments of pain until it burned his nerves away, leaving behind only the smell of his own flesh cooking beneath the iron. But the small relief of not feeling a thing was not to last. The holy burn of the consecrated metal seeped through his skin bringing on a second wave of pain that made him wish he was dead. The scorching agony traveled along his veins to every part of his body leaving him feeling like he was on fire.

Yanking furiously on his bonds, he howled with the torment racing through his body, tears streaking his cheeks and wetting the hair that fell across his face to stick there. It would have been less painful to have the skin flayed from his limbs. He wanted desperately to run to the nearest hole like an injured animal where he could hide from the world while he licked his wounds in hopes he could stop the burning before it drove him insane.

“Get him out of here,” said Dagon dismissively. “He’ll be useless for a few decades until his body completely pushes out the effects of the consecrated brand. We don’t need him Downstairs taking up space.”

Crowley’s vision was blackening; he could barely discern the other demons who were reduced to blurry dark figures moving in and out of his line of vision. Hastur waved his hand and a now-unbound Crowley would have tumbled on to the floor if he had not caught him. Slinging his body over his shoulder roughly, Hastur transported himself from the torture room in Hell back to outside Crowley’s residence. 

Having just returned from Paris, luckily with head still attached and having just enjoyed a wonderful lunch of crêpes with his best friend, Aziraphale popped into Crowley’s neighbourhood to see if he was back yet. Turning the corner on to his street, he looked ahead to see two figures on Crowley’s stoop – one in a dirty frock coat and ragged breeches standing over another in what looked to have once been a fashionable dark red and black ensemble before parts of it were torn to shreds. Quickly the angel ducked back around the corner out of view as Hastur dumped Crowley at his own front door.

He waited there several minutes, the sound of his own breathing harsh in his ears, before moving as stealthily as he could out again to see if Crowley was alone. The only figure in front of Crowley’s residence was the prone one in black and red. He ran towards the terraced house, his borrowed Phrygian cap flying off his head. Reaching the stoop, he bent to inspect the barely conscious Crowley in his ripped jacket, his shoulder and the brand visible to Aziraphale.

“Crowley, what did they do to you? What happened? Come on. Wake up. We need to get you inside.” Aziraphale hauled Crowley awkwardly to his feet, draping the arm on his uninjured side around his neck. “There you go, my dear. One foot in front of the other.”

Crowley looked like he was in extreme agony, tears streaming down his face as sobs racked him. “I can’t. It hurts so much. Just let me die,” he babbled, not registering who was helping him.

“No, we’re going to keep moving forward. Let’s get you somewhere that I can look at your wounds.”

Carefully they moved forward, Crowley only partially aware of what was happening to him. He groaned, head lulling to one side as he followed Aziraphale’s instructions. Step by step they got through the door into the foyer. They stopped so Aziraphale could shut the door and take stock of the floor plan. Crowley had just recently moved here and Aziraphale had only been by once to collect him, never actually entering.

“There you go. You’re doing fine,” encouraged the angel gently. “The sitting room’s right in front us. Easy to get to, my dear. Let’s just go there for now so I can examine you.” 

They slowly made it in there, Aziraphale leading Crowley to the couch where he carefully sat Crowley down, encouraging him to lie down completely. Crowley felt gentle hands examining his wounds, first his cheek then the claw marks, bruise and brand. The agony when he was touched was nearly unbearable; he cried out in severe anguish whenever Aziraphale laid hands on him. Yellow eyes glazed over with pain tried to focus on the white blond head hovering over him puzzling as to why his touch was hurting Crowley until he looked at the brand, figuring it out.

“That you, ‘Ziraphale?”

“Yes, it is. Just lay still and let me evaluate your injuries.”

“I hurt, angel. More than I should,” Crowley replied in slurred speech. 

“The brand is slightly holy. What happened, Crowley? Why did they do this to you?” asked Aziraphale, panic on the edge of his voice. “ _How_ did they manage to use a blessed item to make that burn?”

“The branding iron they used was forged with two drops of consecrated metal from the Inquisition. Wasn’t doing my job like I was supposed to. I had things to do here. Not supposed to skip across the Channel.” It wasn’t the truth, but he was fiercely protective of his angel. Never would he ever say that he was punished for taking care of him. 

Aziraphale bent down, almost touching his forehead against Crowlwey’s, but not quite. “Oh, Crowley. I do wish you’d be careful.” He paused a moment, Crowley feeling a single drop of wetness fall on his own newly-healed cheek, sliding down into his hairline. “That holy brand is seared on to your spirit. It’ll reappear if you discorporate and get a new body.”

“I’ll just have to live with it,” whispered Crowley, barely conscious, in agonizing amounts of pain, wanting to simply curl into a ball to scream himself hoarse as he prayed for death. “No other choice.”

“But I cannot!” cried Aziraphale, tears flowing freely now.

“Why?”

“The holiness in it will react to me. It is right now; I’m sure you’ve noticed a surge in your pain every time I touch you.” Aziraphale screwed his sky blue eyes shut tight against the onslaught of tears. “Never touching you again would be out of the question. I would not wish hurt on anyone, let alone you, my dear. I have to heal it. I can deconsecrate it. Crowley, you _have_ to let me heal it.”

Serpentine eyes stared unbelievingly at him for a mere moment before Crowley began to convulse. Aziraphale watched helplessly as Crowley twitched uncontrollably on the couch, his whole body going rigid. His jaw clenched while his eyes rolled up into his head showing only the whites. Gagging noises emitted from him, scaring Aziraphale even further. 

“Crowley! Oh no, Crowley!” Aziraphale had grabbed his head before the twitching caused Crowley to slam it into the wooden arm of the couch, using his power to evaluate the situation further. “I am taking this decision out of your hands. They put too much consecrated metal in that branding iron. It is going to slowly destroy you in the most painful of ways. I need to do something!”

Concentrating all his healing abilities on Crowley, he put him into a deep sleep so he could work without causing him excruciating amounts of pain. Aziraphale then turned his concentration to the branding wound itself, seeing on a supernatural level the throbbing holiness of it as it seeped from the physical body itself into the unholy spirit that was Crowley housed inside it. Grabbing hold of the mass of holiness, he pulled, yanking the majority of it away from Crowley’s spirit before it started to do irreparable harm.

 _You will not take him_.

Then came the delicate work of chasing down all the threads of holiness that had started to burrow into Crowley and untangling them gently before they could begin their slow shredding of his immortal spirit. He had to pause several times, his own physical body becoming shaky and coated in sweat, a manifestation of the power he was exerting to save Crowley from outright destruction. He worked for hours pulling away delicate thread after delicate thread, finally emerging spiritually exhausted but triumphant. Crowley was finally safe.

Aziraphale regarded the brand, which was just a burn wound now. It would have to heal on its own because demonic corporations could only handle so much angelic intervention, but they could take care of any scarring with quick touch-ups as it did so. It was better than the alternative. In fact, Crowley would insist that a faint scar be left as proof the consecrated iron did its job. Hell would be satisfied with a mark upon his skin, having no idea how healing processes in the human-like body Crowley inhabited actually worked. He would heal it away completely a few hundred years later. The memories of the Powers That Be were notoriously short.

Shakily rising from his perch on the couch, Aziraphale searched the place for Crowley’s bedroom, finding the one he utilized at the end of the hallway upstairs. A quick miracle moved Crowley to the large canopied bed decorated in black brocade and the finest linen. Heaven would know he had healed someone, but they wouldn’t register it was a demon. It would hardly count as a frivolous use of his powers since he was here to do good deeds and he just performed one, even if it was on his hereditary enemy and slightly selfish in its own way.

Tucking Crowley in after changing his attire from the frock coat and breeches that had seen better times to a loose-fitting black nightshirt, Aziraphale made plans. Right now his housing situation was temporary. He was staying at a boarding house while he searched out the perfect location for his future bookshop. But for now, he’d leave his rented room there to stay here, keeping an eye on the sleeping demon and making sure Crowley’s terraced house was kept up while he was unconscious. He could continue his quest for a bookshop of his own during the day, along with his duties for Heaven, spending his nights here so that the residence remained occupied.

Crowley would wake in time after his spirit recuperated, although it could take several decades. It would be a lonely few decades for Aziraphale, yet he admonished himself for such thoughts. It would have been a lonelier eternity if Crowley had succumbed to his wound and ceased to even exist. The angel thanked everything from God to the ineffable Plan that he showed up in time. 

Celestial beings didn’t sleep, but he found he could use some time restoring himself. Taking off the tricolour sash he still wore along with his shoes and frock coat, he got into bed as well, cuddling up to Crowley with his head lying on Crowley’s shoulder and an arm thrown over his torso. Placing a kiss on his well-defined cheek, he settled in for a few hours in a trance-like state, allowing his spirit recuperate from the intense use of his healing powers while Crowley’s spirit and body slowly mended themselves beside him.

As the years passed, Aziraphale went about his work and tended to Crowley’s residence, feeling the sting of the solitude whenever he hoped his friend would awaken soon. He didn’t have too long to wait, thankfully.

It was 1800 now and he had just returned back to the house with a deed to a building in Soho that was the perfect location for his planned bookshop. Humming happily to himself, he stashed the deed in the drawer of a writing desk in one of Crowley’s spare bedrooms for now then went to the kitchen to put a kettle on the hearth with the intent of making himself some tea. After the kettle finally heated he poured the boiling water on to the tea in the teapot sitting on the preparation table nearest the hearth and waited for it to steep while he fetched a teacup.

Bare feet quietly padded upon the wooden floor into the kitchen.

“Angel? What happened? How did I get back here? And why are you in my kitchen?”

Aziraphale’s hand trembled, the teacup nearly falling from his fingers in his excitement. Setting it down carefully, he turned to the confused Crowley standing there clad in the black nightshirt with mussed hair finally grown back and then some. Aziraphale’s face broke into a beatific smile, his sky blue eyes sparkled with elation. Breathlessly he opened his mouth to speak.

“Crowley!”

The joyful hug Aziraphale enveloped him in as his lips eagerly sought out Crowley’s seemed to go on for an eternity. Finally his time of isolation was at an end and no longer would he feel such an ache for the company of his demon.


End file.
